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Simra Sadaf Dec 2018
this is a story of a 17-something boy
who left his home, his parents,
his friends, his town with a backpack that
contained two shirts, a few dollar bills,
his diary, a pen, and his battered copy of
Love in the Time of Cholera, he fancied
himself a writer, “I write fiction”, he told
his friends who thought of him as
pretentious and pompous, the first piece
he ever wrote was a poem,
an unstructured and ill-rhymed one,
he was one of those with a pretty face,
a cheeky attitude that has given up
on god and was disdainfully aloof,
the first night away from home in
a new city, he slept in the bench of
a parking lot next to a homeless man
who stank of *****, cigarettes and
cheap whiskey, he had spent all the money
he had on train ticket and a water bottle,
the next morning, he woke up with
massive hunger pangs, at the time of
such suffering, there was only
one thing he wanted to do – he took out
his diary and wrote on hunger, despair,
and the prospect of never making it,
it was achingly poetic.
Simra Sadaf Dec 2018
I woke up in the
middle of the night
and felt a certain
kind of nothingness,
my wife soundlessly
asleep next to me,
I tiptoed my way out
of the house,
before I knew it I
was in my car turning
on the ignition,
in a desperate attempt
to escape from this life (read lie)
I reached the hotel room,
it was cold and quiet,
my lover sat across from
me smiling, a gentle gesture
that enclosed me,
as I drove back home,
my skin reeked of infidelity
and the smell of his cologne,
it lingered.
Simra Sadaf Dec 2018
If only I could go with you
to the edge of the world
and follow you through all
the chaos and sufferings,
I dream of words that
describe you the best
but I fail to elucidate
your kindness in
words and metaphors,
as I watch you sleep
in profound silence,
I listen to the
rhythm of your heart,
warm and tender that
you fell in love with
a man I am to a man that was,
a drunken poet
a homeless wayfarer,
and before the sun rises,
I write to you my last poem.
Simra Sadaf Nov 2018
every night, he comes home with a drunken rage
a new bruise entry on her 278th page
why does she suffer? she does not have to bear
but she is scared he will beat her with a chair

there is a picture on the nightstand
of them smiling and their bodies tanned
‘tis a happy memory that is now distant
unreal and alien, she questions its existence

against the wall last night, he smashed her face
her fate, her being, she wished to erase
there is a thin line between love and abuse
he crossed it, she endured it, both confused

entry number 340: it was a beautiful day
I brought him some tea and closed the door
hit him in the head with his crystal ashtray
holding his head he fell on the floor

I took the centrepiece, smashed it against his head
also smashed a bottle of brandy and stabbed his chest
his body trembled and I knew he was dead
a sigh of relief! now I can finally get some rest

the ashtray was a gift from me on our anniversary
your death is a gift to me despite all the adversity.
Simra Sadaf Nov 2018
read the funniest satire, the funniest irony
the thing I most craved for is killing me

not so long ago, found myself in a different version
I was neck-deep into a writer, a ****** good one
a cliché – a cig, a drink, a *** of ink, a quill, a paper
also ******* acted for him as momentary pain eraser

‘twas the writers ball where I first saw him
the year was 1940, he looked beautiful but grim
stared at him unapologetically
but all he did was self-pity

the essence, the manners, the abyss in his eyes
every word, every action revealed a man so wise
spent all my nights deciphering every metaphor
curious about what was written on the papers he tore

I wished to reach out and say even poets ***** up
he was busy taking sips from the death cup
wrote to him asking to let me in his world
crossed my heart to keep him secure and furled

I hoped to unburden the sorrows he hid
but death reached out before my letters did
the adversity of not having said, not having heard
drove me mad like him, like him now I live in words.
Simra Sadaf Nov 2018
pardon me, my memory is blurred
do not scrutinise my every word
it was late in the night
a memory in black and white

the house was quiet
neighbourhood silent
only my mumbling could be heard
and my speech was slurred

I saw shadows drifting
my telephone began ringing
when rushed to attend the call
I do not have a telephone I recalled

peeked at the reflection in the shelf
to my horror, I saw me chasing myself
looked at myself in the mirror
saw a ghostly ghoul getting closer

ran to my bedroom and bolted the door
from all the crying, my eyes were sore
wondered if this was a dream or was I dead
I turned around to find myself lying in the bed

a one-eyed monster devoured my flesh and blood
I screamed until on the door there was a thud
petrified I hid under the bed feeling trapped
sensed a hand on my neck, my neck was snapped

I opened my eyes and I was a part of the crew
it is now time, we are coming to get you.
Simra Sadaf Oct 2018
in one of our pointless pillow talks,
you asked me once,
“do sunflowers feel dead at night?”
now that you took away my light,
I feel as dead as these
yellow tinted flowers in the
absence of its soul food.
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